


Pain Management

by MidnightDreary



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Married Couple, Post-Uncharted 4, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightDreary/pseuds/MidnightDreary
Summary: In which Rafe bangs his wifey to draw attention away from his pain.





	Pain Management

Rafe smells like warm vanilla and coffee yet his touch is decidedly cold. He feels like he's been standing out in the gentle flurry of snow that falls just outside, but she knows he hasn't. He's been in his study, as per usual. Research, he tells her when she asks. For a collection. It doesn't concern you, he says when she wants to know more. His sheets smell like the lavender detergent she insists on buying, and she takes comfort in the soft texture of the sleek black fabric. Breathes deep the medley of scents that are both him and her and something else, something soft and infantile.

“Lower,” he commands, hands pushing down on her hips. She turns her head until her cheek is pressing into the mattress and drops her hips until they're inline with his own. Rafe isn't very tall, she forgets. Easy mistake to make when he places himself so high on a gilded pedestal, way up where the air is thin and he forgets his manners with her more times than she should have been willing to allow. She is Effie Offiah, after all. Her family has ended generations for lesser offenses. His cool hands slide down to her thighs and tug her back until her ankles touch the edge of the bed and a zipper is undone. Effie sucks in a breath of air between her teeth. A giddy, anxious feeling swells beneath her breast, worming through her extremities, hot and cold. It wraps around her lungs, squeezes, she exhales shakily. Can feel his eyes burning a path across her skin wherever they linger, appraising her as she postures before him.

She draws up an image of what he must look like right now, standing behind her with her ass bare to him. She thinks he must be touching himself, soft cock in hand. Slow, even strokes to work the flesh. She pictures the blood filling in, shaft hardening, head glistening with precum. His handsome face, symmetrical and far too aesthetically pleasing, set stoic. Lips drawn in a neutral line. Sleepy eyes half-lidded and more alert than they let on, drinking in the sight of his conquest. And she is a conquest, no matter how much her self-respect protests. He fought a battle of business and wit and proved himself worthy of her fathers loyalty and armaments. Proved that the Adlers of America could both assist and benefit from the Offiahs of Jozi. The ring on her finger, garish and too large, solidifies his position of importance in Papa Offiah’s future endeavors. The growing swell of her belly assures his claim to everything when it comes time for the metaphorical crown to be passed. Effie turns her face back to the other side, looks at the mirror built into the wall. Floor to ceiling, streak free. Rafe had it installed a week ago. She doesn't like to preen, but needs to make sure she looks 110% for him when forced to go to galas and celebrations and the occasional birthday. And perhaps she sometimes likes to watch him through it.

Like right now.

She trains brown eyes to his profile through the reflection. Her imagination becoming reality as he draws one hand up and down his shaft, with the other gripping the base, pauses briefly to pay a little attention to the head. And Effie has to bite her thumb, toes curling as she takes in the scene as a whole. Herself there, full breasts flush with the mattress, hands fisting the sheets, knees together, ass up. White summer dress pulled down at the top and pushed up at the bottom, bunching around her vanishing waist. And she can’t see her most intimate parts but she knows she’s wet for him.

Him there, pants low enough to loose his cock, gripping, rubbing, rotating his hand around the head. His shirt is pulled up a bit, exposing the lower parts of his belly and the trail of hair that starts a little below his naval and journeys further south. His abdomen is toned – not excessively so, but just enough to be a testament to his extracurricular activities. His hair is as perfect as it usually is. Not a single strand out of place and she desperately wants to run her hands through it and fuck it up and make him angry. She allows her eyes to gloss over what injuries she can see with his shirt still on. The edges of scars and burns and marred flesh. Tips of grooves and surgical lines. Hidden metal beneath the of skin of his arms. He doesn’t talk about them and she knows better than to ask.

Rafe clenches his jaw and the muscles there flex and Effie wonders if he knows how attractive he is when he does that. It’s a strong possibility that he does know.

He’s a narcissistic man.

Again, she lowers her eyes to where his hand still strokes and her face feels warm.

Rafe has a pretty penis.

She had never seen a white man naked before him. She has seen the endowments of a few Jozi men in the past, when a selection won her older sisters audience and of course Annette had to bring her sussie along. Some were half the length of her arm and nearly as thick around. Darker on some than others. Some veiny and hooking to the left or right, sprouting from coarse bushes of dark hair. All obscene and not at all worth any of the attention the men thought they deserved. By the 10th man, Effie was thoroughly disinterested.

But Rafe was different.

His lacked the near-absurd length of theirs, but was still enough to make her weak. He has to ease himself in, wait for her to open up for him. It hurts when he’s full throttle through her gates, and he knows it. Especially now. He felt good in her hands, though. Soft and firm, warm and weighty. Swollen in her palms, between her lips, against her tongue. A single, prominent vein along the underside. She likes to trace it. Lavishes his pretty head with adoration, knowing how he likes the feel of her taking him in with enough suction to make his body tense. If he decided to let his hair grow it was always neatly trimmed and soft to the touch.

“Right here?” She asks, trying to sound more American for his sake. Pushes for the generic, could-be-from-anywhere sound. He hates her accent. Reminds him of a woman he once knew. Perhaps thinking of her, he roughly parts Effie’s legs and she quietly hopes he can't hear how her heart beats in her throat. One hand smooths along the length of her back, tracing a cool path down her arched spine and up to the swell of her ass. He grips her hard here, fingers digging into brown skin. His nails are short, well manicured but enough is there to make her flesh sting.

Then comes the pressure and Rafe is swift to fill her up. He jerks her back and a resounding clap of skin on skin is the hallmark of him driving home. And oh the first stroke has her whimpering, has her back bowing, white-knuckling the sheets. Eyes closed hard, bottom lip between her teeth; it is very unpleasant. Effie’s breath catches with every other to follow and he has her thighs quivering. Her husband is not a gentle man. He can be; he can be many things if the price is right. Charming and generous and conniving and a right prick. Sometimes all at once. But right now he is upset and his frustration is usually vented in a sexual way. Right now he's horny and something needs to be filled, and if it cannot be in him in an emotional or metaphorical sense, then it will be in her in a physical sense.

Rafe holds on firmly as he drives into his wife with sharp thrusts. He feels her calves rise against his thighs as she endures him, tries to resist closing her legs. Her inner walls clench around him, tightening and relaxing at her behest, body tense beneath his fingers and he knows he should be gentler - he knows. But he aches. His body throbs and soon it will burn and the lingering damage will make his skin and muscles and nerves and his _fucking bones_ bleed with pain, and Daniella hasn’t returned yet with his prescriptions and he has to share his home, his name, his bed and all worldly assets with Effie so why not his pain too.

A hand closes around her bicep and Rafe is pulling her up until she’s pressed tight to his chest and his arm settles comfortably between the softness of her breasts, gripping her freckled shoulder. Her skin is hot against his arm and chest, the swell of her ass a fine cushion against his pelvis. His mouth presses against the column of her neck, exposed as her head drops back against his shoulder. And he’s not kissing her, that’s not really his thing, but he does enjoy the earthy smell of her and her flesh is a nice muffler to any sounds he thinks he might make.

Vocal sex also isn’t his thing.

He lets go of her hip to slide his palm down to the juncture of her thighs, along a small patch of well-trimmed russet hair and further still until the tips of his fingers brush against his shaft. Rafe dips his shoulder and curls his middle and ring fingers into Effie, pushing against himself. His movements slow as he fingers her, palm rubbing against her clit and Effie is certain this is how she dies. 

His touch is sure to end her one day, she knows. Caressing and groping and smoothing the rough pads of his fingers along every inch of her. Stroking inside her in languid tandem with his cock, he fills her and it’s too much, but Effie decides in that moment that if her heart stopped, she wouldn’t even be able to blame it. Couldn’t even get mad. The arm barred between her breasts shifts to cup the underside of one, thumb and forefinger rolling a pert, dusky nipple with expertise. 

Rafe pinches her hard and she hisses through her teeth, lays a hand over his own. A sharp exclamation erupts from her throat, more sound than word. Her breasts are sensitive, he knows because she complains enough, and it hurts but she can’t find the will to pull away from him. 

He is a magnet with a polarity too strong to break away from. That this man she was given to, a man she hardly knows anything about, can hold so much sway over her scares her when she dares to think too long on it. Perhaps it is because she is young and he is her first everything; kiss, man, love. Rafe took her virginity, and while he wasn’t unkind, she sometimes wishes she listened to Annette and took a trial run on the boy at the video store, for practice. 

She is impressionable and he is imposing and Effie has always been a touch clingy. He could order her to her knees with just a look.

It’s a frightening thing. 

The pain of his rough intrusion couples with the pleasure of his palm against her, - and the sex in general - and she’s ashamed to admit that it feels good. Still, she’s uncomfortably full and he if doesn’t quit she thinks she might tear. Effie laces her fingers with his, pulls his hand to drape his arm around her waist, reaches her other back to brace against his hip.

A wordless plea to have mercy on her.

But maybe she mistakes him for someone else.

He grunts against her neck, drops his hand to join its brother between her legs, helps pushes his fingers deeper. 

_“Rafe – ah - Rafe-!”_

And then, as if uncaring of her delicate constitution, he hooks his fingers, buries them until she certain she can taste them, gives his hand a jerk and his hips a swift upward thrust. She sharply pushes back against him. Grips his forearm with both hands, curls inward as best she can. Lips parted as a breathy sound, not quite a moan and not quite a groan, crawls up from her lungs, pours from her throat to fill the space of his personal room with her feminine anguish and near-orgasmic delight.

Because _ow_.

Because _oh._

Because he’s a wounded animal and he hurts so she hurts and the spring that’s been coiling at a steady turn is about to break; the tension is too tight. But she doesn’t want it too, not yet. Not until he’s close. Not until he’s ready.

He curls with her, over her, eases her back down, presses his front to her back and Rafe must have pulled his shirt further up because his belly is cool like the rest of him but she finds she doesn't mind it because she's too hot when he buries himself to the hilt. Logically she knows it must be some kind of nerve damage – him not being able to regulate temperature normally.

Or maybe it’s the frozen tundra of his heart finally seeping through his skin.

Hot breath exhales across her shoulder, wet warmth of his tongue presses against the frantic thrumming of her pulse, a rapid-fire morse code relaying unspoken messages to him-

_Damn you  
I love you_

Effie huffs into her arms as they act as a buffer between her face and the bed. Rafe has since removed his hands from her person and instead they now bracket her as he looms over, body molded to hers to keep his face buried in her neck. His breathing is a little labored, skin warming and damp with sweat. He mutters something into her throat, slowly shakes his head and she isn’t sure what he’s saying but she does catch the tail end.

“Fuck...” and the sudden feeling of vacancy prompts a shudder to wriggle down her spine. A complaint is on the tip of her tongue, a promised whine for sure, when Rafe tugs at her waist, coaxing her to shift – ungracefully – unto her back. He doesn’t give her enough room to move comfortably; she practically slithers against him as she goes. Skin slicked with sweat, at least the transition doesn’t give her friction burn. Settled, Effie’s vision is swallowed up by the gravitational pull of his hazel eyes. The colors that swirl inside the iris, beneath the heavy lids, around the void of his dilated pupils.

He always looks so disinterested with things.

“Are you alright?” she asks tentatively, touching his face with feather-light caresses. Traces a finger softly across his brow, along his cheek, down his jaw. The stubble there, short and prickly against her fingers, reminds her he needs more aftershave. Maybe a new razor, too. Rafe empties his lungs in a lingering exhale, tries to smooth his hair back into place since it’s fallen from its usual coiffed perfection. But it’s damp and limp and refuses to obey. Strands crest his brows, hang before his sad, sad eyes. He needs a trim, she thinks, hesitating a moment before she too tries to – insincerely – fix his hair. Gasps quietly as Rafe again pushes into her. Spreads her legs wide for him as he eases in, minding her grip on his inky black strands. Watches his eyes as they roam her face. He never lingers too long on any particular feature, looking more like a man browsing ice cream flavors than a man bedding his wife. And if he notices her wince, he chooses not to acknowledge it, zeros in on her eyes. Holds her down with the weight of his gaze.

She fights to remain fixated on his face.

His hairline.

His brows.

The bridge of his nose.

The swath of healing, pink skin on the side of his neck.

It’s hard because she wants to see the damage that’s been done to the parts of him she can’t see. Wants to see what makes this normally self-loving man body shy, but the memory of his fingers digging into her jaw, her wrist, the edge of the counter biting into the small of her back – the fire in his eyes – keeps prying hands from where they don’t belong.

Instead, she reaches down between her legs, feels around where their bodies connect, around his girth. A bit of wetness is her reward and as Rafe pulls her hand away, guides it up to hold beside her head, she does not see the small smears of red that spot the tips of her fingers, but his gaze briefly flickers to them and back. A ghost of some expression fades away in the blink of sleepy eyes, too fleeting for her to ascertain the meaning of, but there enough for her to be sure that he’d expressed something. 

At least, she hopes.

His right eye narrows slightly, muscles flex as his arms tense.

He’s too proud to complain but he’s in pain, she can tell.

The stinging of her wounded walls will surely mature into a throbbing burn later on, but she decides that she’ll be upset with him then instead of now. Will make him go out and buy her favorite ice cream and sit and watch the discovery channel with her.

Rafe rocks into squeezing warmth, braces his arm beside her so he blocks her line of sight to the mirror. Breathes against her face. She pushes up against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, undulating her hips to compliment his movements, coiling that spring again. Obliges his desire to keep his hidden scars just that, tips her head to lick his collarbone, the dip in his throat, his Adam's apple. Works her way up to his mouth and sighs against his lips. He parts them and Effie is quick to taste him. Quick to run her tongue along pearly white teeth, tastes the citrus there against his tongue. 

And Rafe indulges her. 

Somewhat. 

He barely responds, but she does not mind. He isn't neglectful but isn’t affectionate, not usually. She can kiss him, when he allows, but he is hardly one to initiate. 

Effie has to go to him. 

Earn his affection. 

It's a reward, not a right. 

His stubble tickles and she smiles against his lips, gasps when he angles his hips and his cock hits that spot inside her. Not once. 

Not twice. 

Not even thrice. 

_But over and over and over again_. 

And she's moaning loudly now, whining his name and hitching her legs higher on his waist, touching his face with her free hand. Cups Rafe’s cheek, trails her thumb along his bottom lip, traps it between them as she closes her mouth around his. Her breath comes out stilted, jarred, halting from the feel of him. The denim of his pants rubs low against her inner thighs, zipper a fleeting bite that comes and goes in time with his thrusts. 

_“Ah...fuck,”_

He tears his mouth away, curses quietly, shifts them further up the bed to make room for him to plant his knees into the soft mattress. He tucks them under her thighs, shoves one hand beneath her, urges her to lift onto his lap a little, plasters his body to hers. He buries himself in until there’s nothing left, and he thrusts deep and quick, barely pulls out, grinds so hard Effie has to bite her thumb to stop the screams. The cook is downstairs and she doesn’t want to shop around for another one again just yet. Rafe’s rhythm increases, muscles tighten and it’s only moments later that a strangled groan fills the air around them. His hips stutter as he cums, the hand beneath her moves to curl around her, hug her closer, leave her no room to escape. And _oh god_ she can’t _breathe_ , can’t see anything but the stars that burst behind her eyelids. Tiny universes being born, colliding and dying in time with his pulsing cock, in time with every tick of it as her body milks him for everything he has. Rafe goes still, but Effie can’t help herself. She grinds against him still, riding out her orgasm for as long as possible, wants it to never end. Would lock it in the cage of her thighs forever if she could. But she can’t.

____

When she finally comes down, Rafe’s arm relaxes and allows her to drop gently onto the bed, where he soon follows. She’s convulsing softly beside him, legs drawn closed around her hand, nothing penetrative; she simply desires the contact. Rafe watches her as he reigns in his breathing, slowly adjusting his clothing – pulls his shirt back down, shifts his pants back up. He pushes uselessly at his hair again, holds her gaze when she opens her eyes to look at him. He stares at her for a long while, would have been longer still if she didn’t blink and seem to catch herself. Effie collects herself, works her way into sitting up so that she can fix her dress. Her back is to him, posture rigid, and he quietly reaches out to run his fingers along the broken line of darkened flesh that cuts at an angle across her spine. His touch is severed when she jerks the material back up.

____

Rafe allows her to get up, awkwardly, and disappear into the bathroom to clean up. When she emerges a half hour later, smelling gently of something vaguely fruity, she sees that he’s barely moved to lay on his pillows with an arm draped over his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight. An orange pill bottle sits on the bedside table with a half empty glass of water, and Effie resists the annoyance that bubbles beneath her ribs. The maid has come by, it seems. Beautiful black haired foreign honey pot, that one. More capable of fetching her husbands must-haves than his own wife, apparently She hates the woman, wants to stitch up her cunt so it might never be used, but keeps her ire – and decidedly savage urges – to herself. Effie instead placates her mood by carefully laying beside Rafe, being quite particular about not touching him in any way. Minutes pass before Rafe’s breathing evens out into the telling calm, deep and measured inhales that means he’s gone to sleep – either willfully or by way of his shiny new pain management, she can’t be sure. But she lays there quietly beside him as he sleeps, compiling a list of events he can take her to to make up for the abuse he laid on her delicate femininity. 

____

Perhaps one of the many animated musicals with fuzzy little animals will make a suitable punishment.

____

**Author's Note:**

> So this may or may not turn into a series of one-shots centering on Rafe and Effie, possibly Rafe and others. Also this is my first time posting to this site so do forgive me if anything is off point with the tags. I didn't want to go crazy with tagging all kinds of things, but I do want to make sure people can tell what's up at a glance. Lemme know if I done goofed, mkay thanks~


End file.
